


For Whom the Bell Tolls

by DeviantCandle



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Relationships, Domestic, Gen, Implied Relationships, M/M, Maxwell/Wes if you squint, Multi, Oneshot, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Slash, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, like really squint, the crew lives in a shitty house, ya'll need reading glasses to see it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-04 18:09:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15152759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeviantCandle/pseuds/DeviantCandle
Summary: Wilson had chosen the room on the landing of the stairwell as his own, and it's from this position he could confirm that Maxwell WAS and IS in the attic most nights. Granted, there was an 8-hour gap between the times he fell asleep and when Maxwell could be accounted for the next morning, which was reassuring enough for everyone else.That said, Wilson also knew that Maxwell never SLEPT.





	For Whom the Bell Tolls

**Author's Note:**

> A general summary of the setting: Wilson and Co escape the Constance sometime during the events of Don't Starve Together. After several months of strife, they now live together in a ramshackle house that should have been demolished decades ago. At the time the story takes place, they have been living in this horrid house for a few months now. 
> 
> I wrote this with the intention of letting the story speak for itself and left some aspects of this up for interpretation.
> 
> Originally this was meant to be a multi-story fic but I've since lost muse for it, I may or may not continue it at a later date! For now I'm just going to let it sit as a one-shot.
> 
> This story is Wilson centric. As far as warnings go there is no graphic content depicted but there is mention of skinning a deer about halfway through.

The stove had given Wilson no small amount of trouble. First, it was blatantly broken, though fixing it he had no qualms with. Second, it was heavy, and he was no Wolfgang. He had managed to drag the broken thing out of its slot in the counter and set it on its side, however, and this left grooves in the decrepit floor. For a short time in the process of moving it, he feared the floorboards might give way underneath. Maybe once the floorboards had a finish, the wood may have been of high-quality decades ago, but now whatever it had been had dulled, graying, and finally turned white.

 

The heavy metal of the stove had nearly been rusted through in several areas, and prying the bottom panel off sent palm-sized flakes of it into the air to join the thick layers of dust still plaguing everything. Wilson didn’t even want to look in the slot where the stove had been. Just dragging it out had shown him inches of dust, rot, and unidentifiable pieces of something that probably should have been swept when the house had still been less... itself.

 

There had once been wallpaper there too, but whatever the original design had been, behind the stove the wall had been blackened and chipped, paper curling and so scorched that if he touched it had crumbled right down into the layer of grime on the floor.

 

Wilson pulled his way out of the stove from where he had shimmied halfway into its casing, sitting back on his heels as his gaze wondered. Sweat stuck his hair to his forehead despite the brisk wind outside, and he wiped his brow with the back of his hand, leaving a smudge of grease in its wake that he didn’t notice.

 

To say the house was falling apart would be an... understatement. From his vantage point on the floor, which creaked dangerously with any shift in weight- though until thus far nobody had fallen through and neither had the stove, he could see most of the kitchen. It certainly wasn’t anything to look at. Paint that might have once been pink or perhaps yellow chipped and curled from the walls, now a grimy gray, almost green in color. Black soot on the ceiling and walls and charred spots of wood suggested a fire had once raged inside the kitchen. The cabinets had not a single door aligned, and several hinges were so rusted that two of the doors had fallen off when they had tried to first open them.

 

Rat detritus still piled in the corners of the room, by the holes and cracks they surely lived in. Several traps had already been poised at the ready, but so far nothing had been caught. At least, if times turned desperate in the coming winter, the group might have a reliable food source.

 

The afternoon light did not help the old kitchen, in all honesty. The dwindling autumn rays swept across the island counter and over his workspace. All it served to do was highlight the grime, dust and dirt kicked into the air by his handiwork.

 

He could almost see the living room from where he was through the archway, but the angle was wrong, the doorway crooked from its age. From his new angle, he could see cracks in the doorframe in the drywall he had not seen before.

 

Yet another thing that needed fixing he supposed. At least the electrics worked, admittedly not consistently, but that hardly mattered when he could but reach into the groves in the floorboards to create a makeshift torch. He had resorted to this a few nights ago, in a fit of panic incited by... an incident that was embarrassing enough on its own. Later, Willow had pulled a rug over the gap and now he couldn't remember in which hallway the hole was located.

 

The electrics were less of a priority than food prep and storage, but it was certainly on the agenda before cold weather truly set in.

 

Heaving a sigh, Wilson turned his attention back to the task at hand. He should make headway before the majority of the household returned from whatever it was they were doing. Wolfgang, he knew, had tasked himself with gathering wood in the backwoods. Early on the bear of a man had decided to take on the responsibility of insulating the exterior of the house and fixing anything structurally that might threaten their extended stay. Who knew what Wes was up to, he often disappeared for half the day only to return just before sundown. Wickerbottom was likely upstairs (He couldn't be sure, as he hadn't checked on in a few hours), sorting through the tomes left behind by the house's previous owners and no doubt expanding her own collection. That left Willow unaccounted for.

 

As for the stove, it seemed to be missing a few wires on the inside. A particular red wire that struck Wilson as an important component to the lighting mechanism, showed signs of being chewed through by an equally particular and vicious rat. He took the frayed end of the wire carefully between his forefinger and thumb for a closer look. Out of all the issues with the stove, this should be one of the easier fixes.

 

Reaching behind him, Wilson felt around for his toolbox. Instead of a smooth metallic surface, his hand came into contact with slick leather. Wilson jerked his hand back. Cap toe oxfords, pinstripe trousers and a double-breasted suit jacket to match. And not a speck of dust on the dark fabric. Wilson steeled his breath and glared.

 

“Maxwell.”

 

“Higgsbury.” The reply was curt. The bastards' lips quirked into a sneer.

 

“You're back early,” Wilson observed bitterly. The man couldn't stay away long enough, in all honesty. Each morning Maxwell left the house roughly before 8am, while the rest of the household distracted themselves with breakfast, and returned sometime before or after supper. Which was always at 9:30pm.

 

Wilson was not always up at 8am, he knew roughly Maxwell's schedule in the house by the testimony of Mr. Wickerbottom and Willow, but he did stay up quite late most nights. A habit from the Constance he had yet to kick. All the bedrooms in the house were upstairs, save for the attic which is not accessed by a ladder, much like his old cabin, but through the stairwell. It was the only room Wilson had not seen for himself, and the only room in the house he could not get into, solely because Maxwell claimed it.

 

Wilson had chosen the room on the landing of the stairwell as his own, and it's from this position he could confirm that Maxwell WAS and IS in the attic most nights. Granted, there was an 8-hour gap between the times he fell asleep and when Maxwell could be accounted for the next morning, which was reassuring enough for everyone else.

 

That said, Wilson also knew that Maxwell never _slept_.

 

“I solved our icebox problem,” the man stated. With his knuckles, he rapped on a tall silver box Wilson had not noticed, until the exact moment after he had done so. It took a moment for Wilson's brain to catch up with the blatant use of black magic before he could will himself to speak again.

 

“Where did you find that?”

 

Maxwell tutted. “Be careful Higgsbury, why, with that tone, someone might mistake you for ungrateful.”

 

Months ago, in the Constance, Wilson would have been intimidated. Here, he wasn't in the slightest. “It's in horrible condition!”

 

“You've slept in worse pal,”

 

That... was uncalled for!

 

“I wouldn't call your arrangments complimentary.” With the way Maxwell twitched Wilson knew he hit a nerve. Like Maxwell hadn't stated outright the deplorable living conditions he had been forced to enduring, Wilson wouldn't outright mention the throne. It took two to play this game of 'Hey! Let's dance around this subject indefinitely, what fun!'

 

“Careful Higgsbury, I am not the one still groveling in the dirt here, pal.”

 

Wilson's eyes narrowed. Fueled by a sudden impulse, he threw a greasy towel at the man's shiny and spotless pinstriped, dastardly suit and spat venom. “No one gravels anymore, Carter.”

 

The Great Maxwell held still as stone.

 

As the silence stretched on. Wilson felt his heart race, a thundering beat flooding his ears with artic waters. He waited, with jaw clenched for the man to react.

 

A miracle happened instead- Maxwell turned on his heel and left. The sharp click of his shoes echoed down the hall and faded with the groan of the stairwell.

 

Good riddance.

 

Wilson closed his eyes, waiting for the door to slam shut before he allowed himself a deep breath. Everything was fine. Perfectly fine.

 

For now, he had a stove to fix. these thoughts on Maxwell would not get in the way of doing so. He worked on it for several hours until frustration dictated that he focus his attention on something else. His work on the stove was at the halfway mark at that point, and he estimated he would have it working by tomorrow evening around the same time. As for the icebox... a cursory glance over revealed there wasn't much wrong with it. Once hooked up the icebox powered on without issue, after fifteen minutes Wilson noticed a noticeable dip in temperature. A closer inspection revealed no leaks or drafts. The only thing the icebox needed was a good scrubbing.

 

Another hour went by and Wilson deemed the icebox sanitary enough for now, but not yet sanitary enough for food. That would have to wait for later.

 

The house was old. It was old and damaged, at that, and it creaked and groaned and generally sounded like it might be haunted at any hour of the day. But otherwise, generally, it was quiet, so Wilson had spent much of his time in his own thoughts and worked in relative peace.

 

However, this made it easy for distractions. The walls were thin, the rooms sparse and everything echoed. He was pulled from his work by bouncing footsteps and the distant yet encroaching murmur of voices. Only a moment later a muffled yelling joined the bustle of sounds from outside. Thought it seemed rather excited over fearful.

 

Wilson exhaled a breath he didn't realize he was holding. It sounded like Wolfgang was back, together with Wes likely in toe, they were probably gathering the firepit for dinner. More footsteps, closer this time, joined in from the stairwell at a brisk pace to the foyer. Wilson stood, brushing his grimy hands off on his pant legs. As anticipated Wickerbottom peered into the kitchen. She looked him up and down, a critical look over the state of his clothes.

 

“Washup Higgsbury. I need your help cleaning the deer up before that buffoon makes a mess of my garden.”

 

“You mean a beefalo,”

 

Wickterbottom paused. She stared at him for a long moment, for long enough he wondered if he had done something wrong, but then more softly she said. “No Wilson. A deer, Wolfgang caught a deer.”

 

“A d-deer. Oh.” it was a rare moment when Wickerbottom expressed sympathy, Wilson struggled to maintain eye contact in light of it. “Wash up,” she said again. “I will meet you outside when you're done.”

 

Wilson washed up in the mudroom. It was a space he felt highly out of his depth with but for the sake of not focusing on anything else, his thoughts led him here. The kitchen had two entryways, one lead to the stairwell and the other to the foyer. Situated under the stairwell sat the door to the mudroom. Turning the corner in the mudroom led to another door, which opened up to the covered porch outside and the garden beyond.

 

Once finished Wilson headed out into the garden. Willow and Wickerbottom were waiting for him by the garden fence, like the guardians of a vast wealth. Nearby, Wolfgang and Wes were setting up iron steaks and a grill around the firepit. Willow watched the duo lite the fire with no small amount of envy.

 

“They're doing it wrong,” She told him as he approached. “There is no finesse, no passion. Wilson, you have to convince the old women to give me my lighter back!”

 

He gave her an apologetic smile. Wickerbottom quickly hijacked the conversation, a lecture on fire safety on the tip of her tongue, citing the fragile structure integrity of the house and using the current state of the dining room as an example of its importance. Wilson's bedroom was directly above the dining room, the floor had just been fixed. He very much liked not having a gaping hole in the middle of his room, thank you very much.

 

The deer was skinned and skewered over the firepit in short order. Wolfgang insisted on doing most of the work himself in the end. Wilson did not mind much, with his help Wickerbottom was able to keep the space around the garden relatively clean. Even after years of the practice out of necessity, it was a difficult sight to stomach. As the evening sky grew dark the group gathered around.

 

Wes excused himself to turn on all the lights inside and outside the house. The consideration on the mime's part was appreciated.

 

There was no set routine for supper. Things were often... spontaneous. It was a leftover from long nights months ago, when food was scarce and energy was better spent making preparations for the next day all through the nights. Such intensive preparations weren't as necessary anymore, however that did not mean planning out the next day or going over what needed to be done wasn't important- trouble was, with such a large group the disscussion would always end up sidetracked.

 

Throughout the day Wilson had compiled a list of things currently in-process and a list of things that required urgent attention. Yet, instead of discussing the drafty window in the library and the corresponding hole in the wall leading to the next room over- Wolfgang had the whole crew engaged in a fantastic tale of his last great adventure.

 

“There I was, laying on my back in the middle of the stream- my ears ringing, when low and behold, the stag peered down from above-”

 

“This story reminds me of the one about the turkey.” Willow quipped. “Why didn't you catch us a turkey Wolfgang? I saw eight in our neighbor's backyard yesterday.”

 

“Turkey is too fast. In old country they fatter too, venison seemed like the better choice. Wickerbottom your garden is growing very slowly.”

 

Wickerbottom pushed the rim of her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “It can't be helped. The crops were planted late in the season. To be fair we have accomplished a considerable amount given the circumstances.”

 

“I never thought I would say this but I miss the berries. Wilson did you ever figure out what they were called- hey Wilson! Wake up!”

 

“Hmmm- oh, sorry I was lost in thought.” He struggled for a moment to remember the last thing said. “No, I don't believe I did. In terms of chemistry, I would draw the comparison to blueberries.”

 

“That taste like raspberries,”

 

“That taste like raspberries,” Wilson conceded.

 

The conversation continued on in this way for another hour. They ate, Wilson mentioned a few things that needed to be done. Wickerbottom described the state of the garden and the prospects of a fruitful harvest. It wasn't looking terribly optimistic. Surprisingly it was Wolfgang who brought up canning their food. Wickerbottom agreed with him but the conversation quickly sidetracked from there. There were too many things you could can and Wolfgang had in mind to share every one of them.

 

After a long internal struggle, Wilson decided enough was enough. “I’m going to turn in for the night,” he mumbled. A chorus of good nights and Wilson picked up his plate to take with him upstairs. As he climbed the steps up the porch he missed the concerned look Wickerbottom sent his way, the light caught in a short flair in the reflection of her glasses.

 

He followed the lights through the mudroom rather than through the foyer. The route was closer to the stairs, yes, but the narrow hallway gave him a sense of security he felt mild guilt for indulging in. On his way past the kitchen entry, Wilson remembered that Wes had yet to return to the campfire outside. Mildly concerned he took a quick survey of the first floor. Wes was not to be found down here so Wilson assumed he must have gone to bed early. A reasonable assumption to make, they all had bad nights sometimes. With this in mind, he went upstairs himself.

 

An aggregated sigh left his lips. there was so much to do before the winter months, he was beginning to feel pressed for time. Balancing his place in one hand Wilson wedges open his bedroom door with the other. As the door creaked open, the staircase leading up to the attic groaned. With a start, Wilson looked up.

Step by step and ever quiet Wes came down the stairs. He hadn’t been the man Wilson was expecting but he was no less surprised. The mime had a sober look to him, painted lips tugged downwards in a small frown, and despite the makeup, Wilson observed tired lines under his eyes. “Wes?” He asked the man as he came to a stop on the landing.

 

Wes’ shoulders sagged, the air leaving his lungs as soundless as the stars in the sky. He raised his hands slowly and signed simply. ‘It’s been a long night. Good night Wilson.’ A tired smile and he turned down the hall.

 

“Good night Wes.” Wilson chewed on his bottom lip. Well, that was hardly informative. A dozen thoughts and theories whirling through his mind. He turned his gazes upwards, searching for answers in the still very closed door Maxwell hid behind. Aside from himself, Wes was the only person who had enough tolerance to speak to the man civilly. And that was pushing it. But would Maxwell allow Wes past the threshold?

 

The notion seemed entirely out of character for either man, so he quickly avoided thinking too deeply on speculation. He closed the door behind him as he entered his bedroom, making sure to give the door a quick double tug to make it was securely latched. The ridiculous thing rattled on occasion and it was a prevalent concern of his that one day the air pressure of the hallway and stairwell beyond would pull the door wide open in the middle of the night. Satisfied that was not about to happen tonight, Wilson got ready for bed.

 

The availability of a bathtub was a luxury he would never get used to. He often forgot he had one until he walked by the open bathroom door and his eyes met the deceptive gleam of white porcelain. He took a short bath and crawled into bed- like most of the furniture in the house, the mattresses had to be replaced soon after the group moved in. Willow had found a nest of rats in her bed, an hour later she burned every mattress in the house.

 

Wilson settled into the bed, not yet ready to bury himself under the covers though he could feel the exhaustion of the day adding to gravity’s firm tug on his limbs. He finished off what was left of the slice of venison on his plate but found himself unable to touch the potatoes and carrots. They were overcooked, for one, and for another... it tasted different, he could not place the difference in the flavor or texture but it it was noticeable enough to make his stomach turn in discomfort.

 

His fork fell onto the dishware with a clatter. Unwillingly his thoughts returned to Maxwell. He was a terrible awful man, with a terrible and awful attitude. What had that even been about this afternoon? There seemed to be something perpetually up that man's rectum! The bastard didn’t even deserve table scraps.

 

Wilson glared down at what was left of his dinner. Bitterness coiling in his gut. Begging, kneeling on the floor indeed. Ha! What an insult it would be to give the man the leftover scraps of food as though he were a dog. The thought of Maxwell’s disgusted or even angered expression sent a strange chill down his spine. And then Wilson knew he had to do it, Maxwell had no control of the world here, and this action would be another reminder of that.

 

With a stiff nod to himself, he grabbed his plate and tiptoed up the stairs. His heart pounded, and more than once he flinched as a particular step groaned under his weight. Yet he arrived on the landing with no fanfare. There was no light on under the door from what he could see but he knew Maxwell didn’t sleep, he knew, he just knew the man was awake. So it was, as quietly as he dared, he placed the play soundlessly just outside the door. Maybe he would even step on it in the darkened hall, ruin those fancy shoes of his. A satisfied smile bubbled to the surface. But this bout of bravery was at an end and with more noise than he intended, Wilson darted back down the stairs and slipped back into bed.

 

He waited a few hours until his eyelids grew heavy and blissful sleep washed over his consciousness.

 

The next morning started like any other. Wilson crawled out of bed late in the morning and slid into the bathtub half asleep. He took two baths in a day not because he felt especially dirty each morning but rather for the indulgence of it. It was a luxury he couldn’t get through his head as something as common and taken for granted that it was in this decade. He could not deny himself the simple pleasure of taking a bath every day. And deep down he feared that it like many things before it would eventually be ripped from his fingertips, torn out from under his feet, never to be returned to him, and so Wilson took a bath twice a day, in case one such time would be his last.

 

He sunk deep into the frothy water, up to his chin in warmth which sapped the tension from his muscles and heated the very bones. There was much to do today, so mentally a list was made, categorized by priority.

 

Several loud knocks shook through the thin wall of his bed and Wilson nearly jumped out of the water. “Wilson Percival Higgsbury, you get out of that bath right now! You’re using up all the hot water!” Willow's shrill voice sent ripples through the silky water.

 

Blinking several times Wilson glanced down at water level. Just half an inch from the rim. “I most certainly did not! I only used the bare necessity!”

 

“You were working on the plumbing just last week. This is your fault!”

 

“It is not! Willow your room is at the other end of the house, you couldn’t possibly be out of hot water!”

 

“Am so! And you wanna know how I know we’re out of hot water? Wes asked to use my bathroom this morning because his wasn’t working.”

 

“That hardly seems like a problem.”

 

Willow snorted. “You men are always complaining about how long women take in the bathroom. Well guess what, I’ll have you know it’s been three hours! Wes hasn’t left yet and I would like to use my own bathroom.”

 

“Three hours- have you asked if he’s okay? Did you check on him?”

 

“Of course I did. He’s fine.”

 

“How can you be sure?”

 

“Don’t be an asshole Wilson, we did the knocking thing.”

 

“Oh, of course.”

 

“Just hurry up and finish your bath already.”

 

He did not, in fact, do anything of the sort in much of a hurry. Wilson took his own sweet time getting dressed. Preliminary grooming was done in a timely efficient manner. He went over the agenda for the day, a second time as the first time he went over Willow had so rudely interrupted- the work on the stove would be finished first, he would clean it and the icebox at the same time, kill two birds with one stone as it were. So hopefully all would be done in time for dinner. Perhaps sometime in the afternoon, he would help Wickerbottom in the garden. Now that they had the resources for canning, it seemed it like a good opportunity to do so.

 

As Wilson reached for the doorknob something crinkled under his heel. His brow furrowed. A scrap of paper? It was white, yellow at the edges and dog-eared in the narrow space between the door and the hardwood floor. When had- he picked it up and flipped it over. Looping penmanship unveiled itself on the other side. The lines were shaky, a little frayed at the ends, a sign the writer had not written for quite some time. It was not a lengthy letter, more of a note really, but it was the contents of it that made his blood run cold.

 

_'What, no steak and wine? Is that the best you can do, Higgsbury? And here I thought you were a gentleman.'_

 

Wilson could practically hear the smugness ooze from the ink, like the sick pus from an open sore. His face flushed red, fingers trembling he torn the scrap of paper apart. He even stomped on it with the heel of his shoe for good measure. That... that... that asshole! His plan to insult Maxwell had completely backfired. Humiliation burned hot and sickly in his chest, but this was not over it yet. No-sir, not by a longshot!

  
  
Resolve set in concrete, Wilson went about his day with fervor. The stove and icebox were finished in record time. He did not see Maxwell that day, but he heard his footsteps in the creak of the floorboards above. An echo and whisper of a shell of a man. 

 


End file.
